“You know, I wonder if we can eat it?” Thalia’s question snaps Astra out of his musings.
Tucking the diary close to his body, he heads over to the door where the other two are waiting.
He’s forced to pick his way across the room as the tentacles and giant body of the mushroom prove to be enough of an obstacle.
“You want to eat the giant mushroom that used to be two people?
I thought you were joking with the cannibalism thing.” He teases.
“It’s not like they’re people anymore.
It’s huge and could probably feed a ton of people.” Thalia argues.
“Please tell me you’re joking,” Rubio begs.
“I don’t think she is.” Astra comments.
“You two have no imagination.” She scoffs.
“Let’s just head back to the inn for now, wait for all this to blow over.” Rubio sighs.
“What are we going to do with the water situation?
Aren’t the spores still an issue?” Astra points out.
“I thought we got rid of those by killing that mushroom?” Thalia tilts her head in confusion.
“No, that just prevented there being more.
But the solution is pretty simple; we just need to boil the water, and that’ll kill the spores.” Rubio explains.
Only when Astra is lying in his bed, exhausted from the day’s events, does he realize he still didn’t get any food.
A prickle of annoyance runs through him, but by now it’s too late to consider even trying.
Groaning, he turns over in bed, eyes falling upon the diary he found, which he placed on the nightstand.
Picking it up, he flips through the pages, eyes skimming them as he goes.
He eventually stops on one that caught his interest, sinking comfortably into the bed to read.
‘To my Journal
Dad’s chosen someone for me to marry.
I hope he’s chosen someone good; I’d rather not be married off to someone like Smelly Nate.
I’m going to meet him for the first time today.
I hope everything goes well…’
His name is Peter.
He was a Halfman, just like her.
She’d never seen him before, but Anne’s circle of friends was minimal, considering her father schooled her from home and never allowed her to hang out with anyone he viewed as ‘lesser’.
She didn’t know what that meant, but her father said a lot of things she didn’t like to understand.
But if she had to guess, it probably had something to do with why all her friends were other Halfmen.
But focusing back on Peter, she thought he was quite cute.
He had olive skin and short curly black hair; his cheeks dimpled when he smiled, and when their parents went off to talk business, he spent his time complimenting her and telling jokes that made her giggle.
She quite liked him; perhaps she could even love him.
In all her sixteen years of life, she hadn’t yet loved someone.
Her mother died when she was too young to even know what that word meant, and her father made it obvious he felt the opposite of love for her.
They had more of a business-like relationship, which was fine with her.
And the less said about her chosen friends, the better.
But Peter was someone she could love.
After their first meeting, they continued their correspondence, with more official visits.
If she had some unofficial visits, though, that was their business and nobody else’s.
To her, it felt like the perfect romance, slow and simple; they didn’t have to worry about their future as their marriage was all but guaranteed.
But as her eighteenth birthday approached, her father became anxious.
Pushing and pushing for a wedding to happen soon.
She didn’t want to get married yet; it was not only a big commitment, but she and Peter were happy taking things slow.
That’s when she understood what her father’s plan was with the whole arranged marriage thing.
He didn’t want her to be mayor.
As soon as she turned eighteen, she was set to inherit the mayoral position from her father as per the town rules.
They stated that if an elder is currently mayor, they must defer their position to their eldest of-age child unless said child refuses.
But…that law also applies to in-laws.
And Peter was a year older than her.
He thought she was going to take his position.
He wanted to marry her off so Peter could have it.
So she could sit on the side and live as some happy wife!
She had had enough of her father’s old-fashioned ways!
She didn’t want to be mayor anyway!
Peter’s mother was also pushing for them to marry.
It felt like an attack from all sides; she had no allies except for Peter…and even him.
She knew he wanted to be mayor; she believed that he loved her, but she also believed he loved the position more.
With all the pressure, she could feel the love draining out of her.
Figures, the one time she thought she found love, it was all a sham.
But she was going to marry Peter, and she wasn’t going to do it if she didn’t love him anymore.
She tried everything, going on more dates, going on fewer dates.
Taking advice from her gaggle of friends.
She even tried sketchy tonics said to help people find love.
Nothing worked.
She was getting desperate.
And then…and then…a psychic came to town.
At least, that’s what everyone called him.
They dressed gaudily, in a long slitted purple skirt with a black sash around their waist.
A tan shirt, short and wide to show off his dark-skinned chest and stomach.
Long dark brown hair tied in a braid with a purple bandana tying it off.
A smattering of dark hairs as a mustache and a goatee.
When Anne went to meet them, they were as infuriating as she’d expected.
All she had to do was take one look at the smug grin on his face.
But he said he could help, and help he did.
They gave her a small packet of something, said it would make her love Peter again; she just had to slip a few in their drinks.
Maybe she should’ve thought it through a bit more, but she was at the end of her rope, doomed for a loveless future.
So she went through with it.
At first, she thought it didn’t work, but then…but then…she loved him.
Oh, she loved him.
‘I think things will be alright now.
I just can’t wait for the wedding!’
Astra closed the book after reading the last line.
The poor girl turned into a giant mushroom, and for what?
Just because her father wanted her to get married?
Just because she made a mistake?
And anyway, who was the psychic who gave her the mushroom spores?
Calling yourself a psychic is a dangerous thing.
Rolling over in bed, he flicked the lamp off.
He would think on it more in the morning.